


le coït, tu aimes ça?

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:26:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sex weekend in paris, set in june 2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	le coït, tu aimes ça?

**Author's Note:**

> written june 2014  
> title from beyoncé  
> tumblr?? ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com

"What are you up to this weekend, Finchy?" Nick asks, once they’re packing up in the lounge, Fearne chatting away about the World Cup. He’s trying to sound casual and easy, but it probably comes off like he’s had his headphones on too long and his hearing’s shot. 

Matt’s shoving papers away into his bag, glancing at a computer screen at the same time. “Not much, Nick.” 

"Anything fun planned?" Nick says, still in that suspiciously loud voice. Oh god. He’s shit at lying, and he’s not even lying yet. 

"Might go see a film with Lizzy," Matt says, narrowing his eyes at Nick, then getting distracted by a text. Thank god. "What about you?" 

"Up to see my parents!" Nick sings, and yes, there it is, the lie. "Probably sleep a lot, watch telly… Hang out with Jane and Liv. You know. Parent stuff. Boring, boring. Not much. Just - sleep. Etcetera." 

"Didn’t you just go up a few weeks ago?" Matt asks, raising an eyebrow, and Nick’s about to stutter an excuse when Matt’s phone rings. 

Matt grabs for it. “Sorry,” he says to Nick, distracted but polite til the end, already shouldering his bag and shoving the door open. “Have fun at home, I’ll see you Monday- yeah, hello?” 

"See you!" Nick says cheerily back, and when the door’s shut he wipes sweat off his face and then has to hide a giddy grin in his elbow. He did it. He  _lied_  to  _Matt Fincham_. Now all that’s left is, like, Fiona, and she never gives a shit about what Nick does on the weekends anyway. 

Ha. He’s got this. 

_wknd is a go nearly out of work!_ , he’s texting Harry, just as he steps outside the Beeb and hears the click of cameras. He looks up, smiles, and - that’s a bit more people than usual. Shit. He checks his watch - flight’s not for a while, but he’s barely packed and he has a few things to do before takeoff - and grins as a few girls duck under his arms for a selfie. 

"Alright?" he asks, slipping his sunglasses down over his eyes, because he probably looks both smug and suspicious at the moment. 

"Yeah, Grimmy," one of them giggles, as he smiles obligingly. "Thanks for the photo!" 

"No worries, love," he says, meaning it, except twenty minutes later he’s still taking photos, and he is actually starting to worry a bit. 

"I actually have to run," he calls, waving a cab down. "Sorry, got a plane to catch - I mean, a train. Er. An appointment. Bye!" 

And he slips into the backseat, exhaling hard. Well. Hopefully no one heard that. 

He has a text from Harry:  _see you soon:) x_

—

Harry’s bought him a first-class ticket to Paris. Nick’s torn between taking the piss for being quiche and being intensely grateful. It’s only an hour flight, but Nick manages to squeeze in three drinks and a complimentary mini cheesecake, along with a chat with the woman next to him, who is French and dramatic and has incredible nails and suspects that her husband is sleeping with the housekeeper. 

There’s a car waiting for him at the airport, and in five minutes flat Nick’s being whisked to a posh hotel. He feels a bit like an expensive mistress, or a high-class hooker. It’s quite nice. He always suspected he’d make a good hooker, if he were a bit fitter and didn’t have to do anything weird he didn’t like in bed. 

It’s all very hush-hush, the whole weekend. For obvious reasons, of course. It’s alright for Nick to be seen at a show in Wembley with eight children in tow. Bit less alright for him to be photographed sneaking into Harry Styles’ hotel in Paris on a Friday evening. 

He’s escorted in a back door by a stone-faced security guard and taken up six flights in the elevator until finally he’s outside a hotel room door, straightening his shirt, fiddling with the strap of his leather weekender bag. Oddly, he’s nervous. It’s just  _Harry_ , but it’s also sort of - a bit of pressure. Sex kind of pressure. Nick wants to have sex with Harry - Nick  _always_  wants to have sex with Harry - but what if his cock goes all funny and he can’t? Harry’ll wonder why he ever bought Nick a plane ticket. Nick and his non-functioning cock, useless and -

"Hey," Harry breathes, as he swings the door open, and Nick looks up and forgets all about his potentially non-functioning cock. Harry’s in tiny blue pants, his hair long and curly and soft-looking around his face, his green eyes gleaming and his mouth curved up in a grin. Oh, Nick forgot how fucking lovely he was. He always forgets. 

"Hi," Nick says back, weak. 

"Come in," Harry says, nodding behind him. 

Nick drops his bag. 

"Flight was nice, cheers," he says, running a hand through his quiff - it always goes wonky after he’s on a plane. "Proper posh like." 

Harry’s being suspiciously silent. Nick turns around, and - Jesus bleeding Christ. 

Harry’s leaning against the wall of the narrow entryway,  _staring_  at Nick. One hand is rubbing over the bulge of his cock in his pants, up and down, heel of his palm pressing down hard. 

Nick feels very - objectified. Also,  _fully into it_. 

"Well, hi, Haz," he says, taking a step closer, shaking off the funny sort of stale travel feeling, the stress of deadlines and flight departures and the long week of early mornings. He’s here now, just here. Harry and a hotel room and thirty-six hours of nothing. 

Well, not nothing. Harry’s currently squeezing his fingers over Nick’s only activity for the next thirty-six hours, and it’s definitely not nothing. 

"Hi," Harry says, biting his lip, looking amused at his own audaciousness and yet nowhere near willing to give it up. "Get me off, please." 

"I feel a bit rentboyish," Nick murmurs absently, watching the way Harry’s hard cock presses against the thin fabric of his pants, head outlined in blue cotton. There’s a damp spot, where Harry’s leaked. Nick swallows a sudden rush of saliva. 

"Earn your keep, then," Harry says, grinning, and Nick rolls his eyes. 

He doesn’t protest, though, when Harry slips a hand around the back of his neck to pull him closer, breathes against his mouth and then gently guides Nick down to his knees. 

Nick doesn’t say anything, because his mouth is watering again, and his blood is starting to rush in his ears, and Harry’s hand is so  _warm,_ big and careful on his neck, and then Harry’s cock is at eye level and Nick lets out a grateful kind of sigh and presses his face to it. 

Christ, how embarrassing. His face flushes and still he breathes it in, that musky scent of Harry’s skin, his precome, his  _cock_. Oh, god, Nick missed it terribly. 

"Alright?" Harry says softly from above him, and Nick steals forward for a taste, pressing the flat of his tongue against the damp cotton. Harry grunts, hand tightening on the back of Nick’s head. 

"Yeah," Nick says, getting on with it, peeling the waistband of Harry’s pants down and watching as his cock slaps hard against his stomach, red and pretty and straining. "Yeah, alright." 

Harry sounds like he wants to say something else, but Nick kisses the head of his cock, angles it to his mouth and gives it a soft wet kiss, and all that comes out of Harry’s mouth is a rough huff of breath. 

"Fuck," Nick murmurs, stomach clenching hot when Harry drips a bead of precome onto Nick’s lower lip. Nick licks it off, salty on his tongue. "Fuck, Harry, you always taste so-" 

"Pineapple," Harry mumbles, from what feels like very far away, and Nick snorts out a laugh. 

"Sorry, what?" 

"Maybe ate a lot of pineapple this week," Harry says, surly, but with his mouth tugging up at the corner. "Maybe I’m a  _good friend_.” 

"Oh, you’re a great friend," Nick says, still laughing, keeping his hand curled around the shaft. "I think we qualify as great friends by now, don’t you?" 

"Maybe if you stop talking," Harry breathes, pulling a face down at him, and Nick growls against the head of his cock, feeling the way Harry twitches at the vibration, and then sucks him down. 

It feels so good. Better than Nick ever feels while he gives head. He likes doing it, most of the time, but Christ, he’s only human, and his jaw gets pretty bloody sore and his poor old knees, well, he’s not twenty years old anymore. 

But like this - just like this, in the hushed dark of a hotel suite in Paris, a popstar spread all out against the wall, moaning and stroking Nick’s hair - it feels fucking fantastic. Nick’s hard just from using his mouth, from the way Harry shudders under him. Harry keeps running his fingers over Nick’s scalp. 

"Nick," Harry gasps, once he’s been sliding slowly in and out of Nick’s mouth for a while, pushing against the tight back of his throat. Nick’s breathing through his nose, eyes squeezed shut and watering, and he needs to get off soon. Minutes after Harry does. He probably won’t last long. "Nick, god, m’gonna come." 

Nick resists sighing, if only because Harry’s snugged up against his gag reflex at the moment and he doesn’t want to be sick. But  _really,_  like, that’s the point. Harry knows Nick likes to swallow, and he’s been eating all that bloody pineapple, so -

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry groans, as he comes, tugging Nick closer by the hair, and Nick swallows and swallows, gulping for air. For a minute he’s so out of it he feels like it’s  _him_  who’s coming, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his whole body on autopilot. 

But Harry pulls back eventually, panting, cupping Nick’s jaw, and Nick remembers with a painful urgency that oh, yes, he still needs to get off.

"God," Harry breathes. "God, that was so good." 

"Earn my - my keep?" Nick says, shakily, undoing his jeans and stuffing a hand in. Shit, yeah, this won’t last long. He thrusts against his palm, muffles a moan. 

"Yeah," Harry breathes, distracted, sliding down the wall until he’s face to face with Nick. It’s too much stimulation, almost, the soft curves and angles of Harry’s face right there in front of him, his cheeks flushed from coming in Nick’s mouth.  _God_ , he came right down Nick’s throat. Nick twists his hand on the upstroke, makes it hurt a little bit, grins to himself. 

"So fucking gorgeous," Harry whispers, watching Nick’s face. He slips his hand down, curls his fingers around Nick’s wrist as Nick works himself over. "God, yeah, that feel good?" 

Nick whines, eyes locked with Harry’s, his hand speeding up. He manages a jerky nod. 

"How’d I taste?" Harry says, licking his mouth obscenely, his lips pink and bitten-full and so fucking soft. Nick wants to, like, live inside there, curled up between Harry’s plush lips and his soft sweet tongue. Or something less weird. His brain is so  _weird_. He jerks himself harder, feels his stomach clenching, close and tight.

"Good?" Harry asks, hushed, when Nick doesn’t answer. "Sweet? You swallowed it like you loved it, Nick. You love how I came in your mouth?" 

"Oh  _god_ ,” Nick gasps, as he comes into his hand, hot and sudden, and he slumps forward against Harry, face in his neck. 

Harry huffs out something that might be a laugh, his hand stroking down Nick’s back. 

"Jesus," Nick says, after a minute, once he’s sure he’s done making embarrassing noises. "Um." 

Harry definitely laughs, then, and tugs Nick’s head up for a kiss. They haven’t yet. Which is just stupid. Though Nick supposes he had other priorities. 

Harry’s mouth is soft and he licks inside Nick’s straightaway, friendly and easy. 

When he pulls back, Nick’s smiling, a dumb kind of smile that he can’t wipe off his face. 

"Hi," Harry says, grinning right back at him.

"Hi." 

"You’re in Paris." 

"We’ve covered this, I think," Nick says, laughing. 

"Have we?" Harry’s grinning around each word, so they come out strangely-shaped and slow and so, so happy. "I dunno if we have." 

"Me, Paris, here," Nick says. "There. Covered it." 

"Alright." Harry catches Nick’s bottom lip with his own, then staggers to his feet, offers Nick a hand. 

Nick nearly falls over, jeans still around his thighs, but he manages to stand up, and Harry turns the light on, waves a hand at his hotel room. 

"Here we are, then." 

"Fuck, this is nice." Nick raises an eyebrow, taking in the massive king bed, neatly made with all-white bedding - the steps down to a balcony door covered in thick curtains, a dark polished desk, Harry’s laptop sitting open on top of it. 

"Shutup," Harry mumbles, all shy. 

"Not complaining, love," Nick murmurs, grabbing his bag and stepping inside, taking it in. There’s definitely a jacuzzi in that en-suite, and all the light fixtures are gold. Nick’s never wanted to Instagram a place so badly in his life, but then that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it. 

Harry follows him in. “Basically I’ve got to be gone tomorrow from, like, two PM on. Until about eleven. For sound check and then the show. I know the timing’s a bit shit-“ 

"It’s fine," Nick says, sending him a reassuring glance, then looking back at the room. Big telly, check. Minibar, ooh, check. Nick hopes they have Toblerone. He’s a bit starving. 

"I thought, like." Harry rubs a palm over Nick’s back. "We could have dinner and just, you know. Take it easy. And tomorrow night I’ll come back after the show, we can do whatever, and your flight leaves Sunday, like, afternoon I think?" 

Nick waves him off. He doesn’t want to talk schedules. He wants food, and a cuddle, and maybe to get off again. Harry going on about flights and sound check is only going to ruin his mood. 

—

He gets two out of three - they order up plates of pasta and then curl up in bed, nearly painfully full. Harry keeps groaning, lying on his side flicking through his phone with his belly sticking out shamelessly. He’s still in his tiny pants. Nick hopes he doesn’t put anything on ever again, if he’s honest. 

Nick lays on his back and talks about his week, whinging on about work and telly and how he’d had to babysit Thurston on Wednesday so Aimee and Ian could have a date night and they’d taken a walk and Thurston had got into something nasty and smelled like literal shit-garbage for hours afterward. Stuff like that. Real nice romantic stuff that he’s sure Harry  _loves_  hearing. 

Harry hums sympathetically until Nick goes hoarse, and then he rolls over to face Nick and kisses him sleepily. 

"Hey," he says, against Nick’s mouth, slack and tired. His breath smells faintly of garlic, and Nick wrinkles his nose. Kisses him back anyway. "Let’s go to bed." 

—

He wakes up with Harry pressed up close behind him, breathing heavy and slow against the back of his neck. There’s sun filtering in around the curtains, and Nick feels tired and loose and good. 

There’s also the matter of Harry’s prick, which is currently resting in the small of Nick’s back, hard and bleeding heat against Nick’s skin. Mm, Nick missed waking up with morning wood against his arse. He loves a good sleepover with Aimee or Pix, but they really come up short in that department. 

He yawns, presses back against it a bit. 

"Mm," comes a voice from behind him, and Harry shifts forward, unconsciously. Nick wriggles back again, licking his dry lips, and reaches out to check the time on his phone. God, not even nine AM and he’s already aching to get fucked. Sex weekend in-fucking-deed.

"You up?" he says, and then laughs, because he honestly didn’t mean it like that. "I mean, obviously you are-" 

"Mmgh," Harry mumbles, slipping his hand around Nick’s waist. "Shh." 

"Barely said anything!" Nick protests, as Harry moves forward against him, rolling his hips a bit, getting into it. Definitely awake, then. 

"Shhhhh," Harry repeats, laughing a little. "Don’t pay you to talk, do I?" 

"This whole extended rentboy fantasy is starting to worry me," Nick says, maybe a little breathless, maybe because Harry’s rocking against his arse and his cock feels big and hot and  _good_. 

"Is it?" Harry says softly, slipping his hand around the curve of Nick’s hip and finding his cock, achingly hard. "You don’t seem bothered." 

"Morning wood doesn’t - c-count," Nick breathes out, stuttering as Harry slides a hand down his dick. "Mm, fuck. F-fuck me." 

"That what you want?" Harry murmurs into the back of his neck, grinding his hips forward just as he wanks Nick again, slowly. 

"Yeah." Nick’s eyes are closed. He doesn’t remember closing them. "Yeah, c’mon." 

He’s been thinking about it all week, if he’s honest. Most of the rumors about Harry Styles are entirely false, but the boy does get around, and he’s a fantastic fuck because of it. Nick’s compared notes with Cazza. 

"Alright," Harry says, kissing the back of his neck and then moving away. "Stay right there, yeah?" 

He’s back on the bed in a moment, and Nick hears the condom packet rip. 

"Want it this way?" he says, peering over his shoulder at Harry crouched behind him. "On my side?" 

Harry looks up, tongue between his teeth in concentration, rolling the condom onto his cock. 

"No," he says, eyebrows furrowed, and Nick shivers a little at the sight of him, all petulant and wanting Nick’s arse. "No, on your back." 

Nick gulps in a breath and goes. 

Harry fingers and fucks him just like that, face to face. Nick should be self-conscious, of his breath, his slack tired face, his sleep-rumpled hair, but instead he’s just - lost to it.  _God_  it’s good. Harry’s cock is perfectly thick and hard in him, and he presses Nick’s thighs open just right, and it’s all so much that Nick has to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from saying something he can’t take back later. 

The love kind of thing. He’s not saying any of that, no matter how well Harry fucks. 

He comes with Harry’s hand around his cock and Harry buried in him, to the hilt, their bodies pressed together. The pressure feels incredible - Harry’s mouth against his, his belly and hand against Nick’s cock, and the length of him splitting Nick open. It’s too much, and he comes with a sob, clenching down around Harry inside him, feeling horribly open and exposed, unable to control the way it makes him feel. It’s scary, that. Scary, but so good, like - safe, completely safe, even when he’s terrified. Like the best kind of sex. 

_The best kind of sex_ , he thinks dreamily, as Harry ruts up inside him, gasping, cursing, until he comes hard into the condom, his fingers flexing in the sheets next to Nick’s head.

Harry rolls off him, stripping the condom off and dropping it on the bedside table. 

"Jesus," he says after a second, giving a shaky kind of laugh, palming sweat off his forehead. 

Like an afterthought, Nick closes his legs. 

"Jesus," he agrees, feeling the ache of it start to settle in. Well-fucked before noon, what a start to the day. 

"You feel so bloody good," Harry says, and Nick laughs. It turns into a yawn halfway through, and he closes his eyes. 

"Cheers," he says, snuggling back into the pillow. "You’re just alright." 

"Oh, ha," Harry says, and then he lets out a little huff of breath. 

Then another. 

Nick looks over at him. Harry’s touching himself, hand between his legs, stroking over his balls and then up to his cock. 

"Are you wanking?" Nick asks, amused. "Did you not come inside me just now?" 

"Feels good," Harry murmurs, thumbing over his hip tattoos, then back down to his cock, playing with himself with his eyes glazed over. It really is a great specimen, even only half-hard. Nick’s quite fond of it. 

"You’re weird." 

"Yeah?" Harry says, sighing slowly, breath quickening, and suddenly he’s rolling over onto his side, pressing his hips against Nick. 

"Oh my god- are you really - good  _lord_ , Hazza,” Nick laughs, as Harry mouths at his jaw. 

"Sorry," Harry breathes, his cock unmistakably hard and damp and pressed up against Nick’s waist. What a miracle. "I can just have a wank, if you-" 

"No, no, go on then," Nick says, pulling Harry’s head up for a kiss, loving the way that a tug on Harry’s curls just gets him harder, makes his dick twitch. "I’ll get hard again if you’re in me. M’easy like that." 

Harry looks at him wide-eyed, the way he did when he was eighteen and they’d barely started fucking. Like Nick’s a constant surprise, every quirk of his body something to be celebrated and then explored and then tested over and over until Harry’s satisfied he’s got it right. 

"Can I?" he says, breathless, reaching down between Nick’s legs and feeling at his hole. Nick spreads them, slides his foot up so his knee is bent, lifts his hips a little. Easy, like he said. 

"Yeah, go on," he murmurs. "Wait, wait - it’ll feel better if you do it from behind." 

He turns over, adjusting the pillow, and Harry strokes over his arsecheeks, pulls him apart. Nick shivers all the way down his back, terribly sensitive where the open air hits his wet skin, and Harry groans in his throat, slides the head of his cock bare against Nick’s hole, up and down a couple times. 

"Condom," Nick says into the mattress, because he’s not  _that_  easy, and Harry fumbles to put one on, rubbing his thumb in the slick open clutch of Nick, each movement feeling sharp, like a twitch up Nick’s spine, making him clench down on nothing. He’ll feel this one for ages, he can already tell. 

"Fuck," Harry murmurs from behind him, splitting him open with his thumbs, cock nudging up against him. "Fuck, you’re so fit." 

He slides in balls-deep on one stroke, groans out loose in his throat like Nick’s given him water in the desert, and - huh, look at that. Harry Styles getting off vocally and repeatedly on Nick’s arse  _is_  getting Nick hard again.

Thank god his ego apparently determines his refractory period. 

—

Barely two minutes after Harry pulls the condom off, Nick’s half-asleep, rolling over away from the wet spot and clutching a cushy white pillow to his chest. 

"I have to go," Harry whispers, some indeterminate time later, the lights all off now and the room hushed. "Sound check. But I’ll - I’ll see you after the show, okay? Don’t leave the room. Or open the curtains."

"Won’t," Nick mumbles into his pillow, as Harry tugs the duvet up over Nick’s chest, tucks him in carefully. 

"Good." Harry breathes out against Nick’s face, kisses his forehead gently. "See you later." 

The door clicks gently shut as Nick slips into sleep.

—

Nick wakes up to his phone buzzing on the side table, cutting through his peaceful, pleasant nap dream of David Beckham and a hot tub. 

"Mmgh, hello," he mumbles into the phone, and Aimee says, "Pull the phone back, babe, we’re Facetiming." 

Nick groans and moves the phone back, squints sleepily at the screen. 

"Morning," he says, yawning. 

"It’s three PM, Grimmy." 

"Oh. I knew that. Good  _afternoon_ , Aimee darling.” 

"Where are you? Thought you were at your parent’s." 

Shit.

"How are the Grimshaws?" another voice says, and Ian sticks his face in, grinning. Thurston’s licking his cheek. "Oh hello, little Nicky." 

"Shut up, babe," Aimee says, leaning closer to the phone, and Nick realizes belatedly that she’s trying to scan his surroundings.

"I’m in Oldham!" Nick says hastily, sitting up in bed, moving the camera unflatteringly close to his face. God, he’s a bloody mess right now. Why the hell did he pick up a Facetime call?

"That’s a hotel room," Aimee says, eyes narrowing. "Eileen Grimshaw would never purchase all-white bedding, it goes against her nature. And also you’d get, like, chocolate on it in three seconds." 

"I have no clue what you’re talking about," Nick says primly, making sure his face fills the whole screen. 

"Wait, what’s going on?" Ian calls, out of the shot now. 

"Nick’s trying to lie to me," Aimee says back, still watching Nick’s face suspiciously. "You’re in a hotel room. Why are you in a hotel room?" 

"I am not!" Nick squawks, just as there’s a knock at the door, and someone calls something in muffled French. Fuck. 

"Just a minute!" Nick calls, and then, wincing - "I mean, be right there, mum!" 

"You’re so full of shit," Aimee says, rolling her eyes. "You’re going to tell me what you’re doing, eventually. And  _who_  you’re doing-“ 

"Whom!" Ian yells, from somewhere in the distance. "Whom you’re doing!"

"Oh fuck off, Chaloner!" Aimee screams back. Ah, domestic bliss. Nick envies them, truly. 

"Sorry, Aims," he says hastily, while she’s distracted. "Gotta go, love you, bye, bye, byebyebye-" 

He tosses his phone aside and stands up, realizes with dismay that he’s naked. Oh, wonderful. 

"Sorry!" he yells, when there’s another knock at the door. "Just a minute!" 

He wriggles into his boxers and a t-shirt, panting, and then swings the door open. 

"Pardon, monsieur-" It’s a man from the hotel. 

"No French," Nick says, first-thing. "Non. Er, non parlez-me francais-" 

That’s a butchering, but the man seems to get it. 

"Sir," he says. "I’ve been instructed to fetch a particular object for Monsieur Styles? A necklace with crucifix upon it?" 

"Crucifix?" Nick says, blankly, and then - oh. "Oh, his cross necklace?" 

"Monsieur Styles needs the necklace within the hour," the man says. "If you don’t mind me coming in." 

"Er, no, of course," Nick says, flushing, taking a step back. 

The man comes in, goes straight to the desk table, and - oh. There’s Harry’s stupid bloody necklace. Right next to a multipack of condoms and the ripped-open empty packet of the one that went up Nick’s arse a few hours before. Jesus  _bleeding_  Christ. 

"This is it, do you believe?" the man says, holding up the necklace. 

"Yep, that’s it," Nick says, in utter humiliation. 

The man places it in a tiny plastic bag and gives Nick a smile. It’s  _maybe_  a smirk. If Nick squints, which he doesn’t care to. 

"Thank you," he says. "I hope you’re enjoying your stay." 

"Very much," Nick says, and then goes red all the way down his neck. Oh, that’s  _definitely_ a smirk. 

"I’ll leave you, then." 

"Er, bye," Nick says, shutting the door behind him, and he slumps against it, closes his eyes. 

"Shit." 

His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and he jerks upright, dashes over to it. It’s Harry. And  _not_  a Facetime, thank fuck. He’s never making that mistake again. 

"Lo?" he says. 

"Hey, Grim, just wanted to warn you, I forgot-" 

"Your cross necklace?" 

Harry stops. “Did he already-“ 

"Yeah, someone came to fetch it," Nick says, shaking his head and sitting down on the edge of the bed. "You left it right next to the condoms, by the way. Nice touch. And I look a right fucked-out mess, so you better hope that bloke’s sworn to secrecy." 

"Yeah, Pierre’s alright, don’t worry," Harry says, because of course Harry knows the name of the fucking hotel employees. Sometimes he’s such a good person it makes Nick want to vomit, just the tiniest bit. But like a fond kind of vomit. 

Harry laughs, snapping Nick out of his thoughts. “Fucked-out, huh?” 

"Don’t be smug," Nick says, snorting. 

"You were pretty sensitive that last time," Harry observes, like it’s an utterly normal thing to say. It’s true, of course- Nick couldn’t stop gasping the whole time, each slide of Harry’s cock in him feeling sharp and overwhelming. But Harry doesn’t have to  _bring it up_.

"Yeah, whatever," Nick says, shifting where he’s sitting on the bed at the memory.  

"Keeping busy? Sorry for, like. Being gone." 

"For being a popstar, you mean?" Nick says, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to wipe the smile off. Harry’ll hear it, and Nick’ll never hear the end of it. "Bit late to apologize for that, isn’t it?" 

"Ha ha," Harry breathes. "Shit, I’ve got to go, Liam’s calling for me. See you tonight, yeah? Shall I bring a bottle of wine back?" 

"God yes," Nick sighs. "Please do. But. Just. Just, er -" 

He stops, squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Just what?"  

"Just don’t be long," Nick manages to say, wincing, and then hastily - "Or, you know. Never mind, really, I know you’re going to be caught up in the whole screaming girls bit for a while. Don’t worry about me. All good. Got my laptop. Twitter, Tumblr, telly, etcetera. Maybe I’ll read the news for once. Get all cultured." 

"I’ll send Dan out for wine, and get back as soon as I can," Harry says, laughing. "Sit tight. Take a bath, you probably stink." 

"My new favorite cologne, Harry Styles’ jizz," Nick jokes, and Harry laughs again, low and hoarse. 

"God, I fucking hope so." 

"Pervy." Nick whistles into the phone.

"I - I’ll see you soon." 

"Be good out there, popstar," Nick says, picking at a scab on his leg, trying to keep his heart from bursting out of his chest. It’s so terrible, being in love, sometimes. It’s bloody stupid. 

"You know what’d be nice?" Harry says, conversationally. 

"Mm?" Nick hums, pressing his thumb to the drop of blood that’s welled up on his thigh. Oops. He reaches behind him to fumble for a tissue. 

"If you were ready for me, soon as I got back," Harry says. His voice is close and low and steady. "You know. Wet, and fingered open, so I didn’t have to wait." 

Nick’s breath catches in his throat. What a presumptuous fucking child, this popstar is, and yet - Nick’s belly floods hot just at the words. He’s so easy, it’s awful.

"You’re a spoiled brat," he says, and Harry must hear the break in his voice, because he just laughs quietly. 

"I just want to come in, and have a drink, and shag you senseless," he says. "Is that too bloody difficult for you, Nicholas?" 

"Sod off," Nick murmurs, rubbing at his cock with one hand, just a friendly little touch. 

"That a yes?"

Nick swallows hard, eyes closing.

"Yeah, alright," he says, and his voice goes weak, shakes at the end. "I’ll - I’ll get myself ready." 

"Fuck," Harry breathes into the phone, like he didn’t think Nick would really agree to it. "You’re so fucking perfect." 

Nick squeezes his eyes tightly shut, fights against the smile pushing at his mouth. “You’re mad.”

Harry just hums. “I’ve got to go. See you soon, Grim.” 

"Bye," Nick says, after a moment, but Harry’s already hung up. 

He orders room service, takes a luxuriously long shower, answers emails, and then ends up engrossed in some terrible made-for-telly movie about boarding school teenagers that’s showing on the only English-language channel other than the BBC. 

It’s nearly over when his phone vibrates on the pillow next to him, and he looks up in a daze. 

Harry’s texted -  _just left the venue should be back in a half hour x_

Oh, shit. Nick has some fingering to do. He texts back -  _sounds good x_ and then tosses his phone aside, grabs the lube. 

He’s got two fingers inside himself, sliding in and out slowly, lube dripping onto the mattress, when his phone rings. 

He fumbles for it with his free hand. 

"Yeah?" he says, once he’s a) checked that it’s not on Facetime and b) seen that it’s only Harry. 

"Hey," Harry says, sounding amped-up, buzzing. He gets like that after a show. "I’m on the way." 

"I got your text," Nick says breathlessly. He huffs a sigh, takes his fingers out and wipes them on his thigh. Urgh. "What is it?" 

"I just - dunno, I’m in the car," Harry says, sounding cheery. "Wanted to talk to you."

"Couldn’t wait twenty minutes?" 

"Nope." Harry’s grinning, Nick can hear it. "The show was good, cheers, thanks for asking, Grimmy-" 

"Excuse me, popstar, I’m trying to get myself ready," Nick says, snorting. "As instructed." 

"You -  _oh_ ,” Harry breathes. “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” 

"You forgot?" Nick squawks, sitting up halfway. His non-existent abs protest immediately, so he lies back down. 

"You forgot? I’m two fingers deep in me own arse and you  _forgot_.” 

"Calm down," Harry says, laughing, and then, softly- "Well, don’t let me stop you." 

"See you soon, then-" 

"Wait," Harry says, before Nick hangs up. "Wait." 

"Hmm?" 

"Just - can I, er. Help?" 

Nick sighs, flops his head back. He was really enjoying that, until Harry called. “You want me to wait til you’re back?” 

"No," Harry says, low. "Keep going." 

Oh.  _Oh_. 

"I can’t - I mean, with the phone, I’ve got to-" 

"Put it on speaker," Harry says. "Let me hear you." 

"You have high expectations of what I sound like when I - do. This," Nick says, even as he hits speaker and sets the phone on the pillow next to him. "Alright, it’s - on. Er. Should I say something?" 

Harry laughs, all throaty and fond. “Just go on, Grim. I’ll be there in a few minutes, just - fuck, make a little noise or something, go on then.”

Nick’s blushing, for some reason. He’s not good at this kind of thing, at least not when he’s the one who’s meant to be doing something. He bloody loves talking Harry to orgasm over the phone, when Harry’s thousands of miles away and shaking, gasping, jerking off in his bunk on the tour bus. He feels good when he does that, powerful, especially when Harry moans his name as he comes.

But now that it’s him who’s meant to touch himself, he just - he feels tongue-tied and stupid.

"Grimmy," Harry says, sing-song. 

"Alright, Christ." 

Nick sighs, spreads his legs again, feels at his hole with a finger and then grabs for the lube, slicks his hand up again. 

"Tell me what you’re doing," Harry murmurs. 

"I’m, um," Nick says, sucking in a sharp breath as he sinks a finger in, curls it immediately, nudges against where he knows feels good. "I’ve got one inside." 

"Yeah?" 

"Uh. Yeah." 

"How’s it feel?" Harry says quietly. 

Nick is trying very, very hard to not sound like an idiot. 

"Good," he says, squeezing his eyes shut, rubbing his finger harder against his prostate. That - that does feel good, an almost involuntary kind of heat unspooling low in his gut. He just - he needs to breathe. Relax. 

"Do another," Harry says, his voice still all - low and soft, crackling through Nick’s phone speaker. "I’m not small, Nicholas." 

Nick scoffs, hears Harry already giggling at his own stupid line. 

"You’re not as bloody big as you - think you are,  _ahh_.” He sinks two fingers as deep as he can manage, grits his teeth through the sore clench of it.

"Mm," Harry breathes. "Talk to me." 

"I - I’ve got, mm, two," Nick manages to say, eyes still closed. "I just - god." 

"What?" 

"Nothing, nothing," he breathes out, rubbing his fingers punishingly slow and hard. He can’t bring himself off this way very well, though, because he’ll jerk away instinctively when it starts to feel too good. He needs - something, someone, to take over. 

“ _What_ ,” Harry says again, sounding fascinated, sounding curious, and Nick pictures him watching, Harry’s eyes running down his chest and stomach, down to where he’s fucking himself. God. 

He swallows noisily, throat dry. “Just. You almost back?”

"Almost," Harry mumbles, faint and too far away. Nick needs him. Nick needs him, and usually when he needs Harry, Harry is miles away. Tonight, he can wait a few minutes. 

"Just-" 

"Don’t make yourself come," Harry says, very quietly, muffled, and Nick thinks of him in the back of the car, trying to stay quiet so his driver won’t hear. "Wait for me for that, Grim, yeah?" 

"I know," Nick says, and it comes out in a moan. He stills his fingers, chest heaving. "I know. Hurry." 

"I’m coming," Harry sighs. "God. I can’t fucking wait, I feel like - I’m so hard, Nick." 

Nick groans, thinking about Harry’s cock thickening up in his jeans. His mouth is watering, and his arse is fully fucking ready, and  _wow_ , he’s a slag. 

"So hard," Harry continues, soft, breathless. "I’ll be there soon." 

He hangs up, and Nick fumbles over with his free hand, turns his phone off, his skin prickling with sweat. 

It’s another ten minutes before the hotel room clicks open, and then Harry’s inside, dropping his bag, kicking off his boots. Nick rises up halfway, naked, and Harry flicks off the lamp and crawls into bed, lies himself out on top of Nick, jeans and shirt rubbing up against Nick’s bare skin. 

"Fuck," Nick says, laughing, punch-drunk and so, so glad, grabbing every bit of Harry he can reach. "You took ages." 

"Couldn’t stop thinking about it in the car," Harry groans against his mouth, reaching down, and - oh, god, yeah, those are Harry’s fingers, sliding between Nick’s legs, rubbing up against where he’s slick and sensitive. 

Nick lets out an embarrassing sound, splays his legs open, and Harry just kisses him, breathes against his mouth and slides two fingers in just like  _that_. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Nick breathes. “Shit, god, that’s so, that’s so-“ 

"Just - fuck," Harry gasps, rubbing against Nick’s prostate right away, fingers rough and clumsy and a little dry, even though Nick’s wet inside. "Fucking - waiting for me, getting ready- you’re all open, Nick." 

This isn’t like any sex Nick’s ever had, Harry on top of him with his clothes on, pressing Nick down with his weight, working him open relentlessly in the tight space between their bodies. Nick can’t speak. His throat is tight and he’s so sensitive, already overcome, and Harry won’t fucking  _stop_.  

"Shit, you’re perfect," Harry groans against his mouth, thrusting with his fingers now, Nick clenching helplessly, bearing down, gritting his teeth against the hot wave of it. "Your fucking arse, love, you’re mad, I couldn’t - I - Nick, Nick,  _fuck_ -“ 

And he shudders hard, grinds his hips down against Nick’s thigh, and Nick feels the warm wet heat even through Harry’s jeans as Harry whimpers in his throat. Jesus bloody Christ, Harry’s just  _come_. Just from fingering Nick, talking at him, rubbing off on his leg. In about five minutes flat.

Harry is drawing in these great shaky breaths like he’s just been punched, and Nick bears down around his slack fingers, suddenly desperate to follow him. 

"Fuck," Harry groans, voice post-orgasm low and syrupy, right in Nick’s ear, grinding slowly down against him. "Mmgh, fuck-" and he twists his fingers up inside Nick,  _hard_ , just as the weight of his belly presses against Nick’s aching cock, and shit, fuck, yes, that’s it, Nick’s fucking  _gone_. He spurts against Harry’s t-shirt, whines in a way that would probably make him blush if he weren’t so absolutely overwhelmed. 

After a minute, Harry lets out a surprised, shuddering kind of laugh, fingers still tucked inside Nick. 

"Shit," he says, sheepishly, face in Nick’s neck. "I swear I meant to actually fuck you." 

Nick’s laugh feels like it’s being dredged up from somewhere deep in his chest. 

"Got myself ready and everything," he says hoarsely, and Harry rolls his face against Nick’s cheek, his skin hot and damp with sweat. Nick can feel his smile. 

"S’alright, though," he says, as he slides his hand out of Nick, thumbs at his swollen arsehole gently. "You alright?"

"I’m alright," Nick says, throwing an arm over his eyes, giving a little shudder when Harry skims his fingers over his soft cock. He lifts his arm, peers at Harry in the half-light of the room. 

"You’re covered in come," he laughs, propping himself up on his elbows to inspect Harry more fully. "Actually." 

Harry sits up, straddling Nick’s hips, and picks at his t-shirt, then the crotch of his jeans. 

"Caroline’s going to kill me," he says, snorting. "Usually I change out my clothes after the show, but, well. You." 

"But, well, me," Nick repeats happily, stretching his arms above his head and feeling well-shagged and fairly fucking pleased with himself. And Harry has  _wine_ , and he’s in for the night now. He’s Nick’s, for hours and hours. 

"Yeah, you," Harry says, more softly, leaning down and kissing him. "Let me clean up. Don’t put clothes on." 

"No clothes, got it," Nick murmurs, as Harry climbs off him. "I’m  _well_ good at no clothes by now. An expert, really.” 

He can hear Harry laugh from the toilet, and he settles back into the pillow, closes his eyes. He has to leave Paris in less than twenty-four hours, but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to enjoy every last minute. 

—

They drink wine and watch telly and then snog for a while, sat side by side up against the headboard. It’s slow and warm and lazy, Harry curling his tongue around Nick’s and sighing into his mouth, and Nick’s chest tightens up a couple times, when it hits him, what he’s doing. It’s so often rushed, with Harry. Quick shags on his days off, hurried blowjobs in toilets all around bloody London - a single night in Nick’s flat, spent shagging furiously and then sleeping hard, both of them exhausted and desperate for each other. 

But to have hours - literal hours - just to  _kiss_. It’s like Christmas and his birthday combined. 

"What time does your flight leave?" Harry asks, his throat raspy from kissing, pulling the wine bottle off the side table and taking a gulp. They’re both tipsy, the bottle nearly empty, and Harry ordered up burgers and chips a few minutes ago, slurring into the phone and apologizing over and over. Nick couldn’t stop giggling. 

"Mmgh," Nick says, annoyed at being reminded, flopping his head back against the headboard and grabbing his phone. He has a text from Aimee -  _JUST CALLED YOUR PARENTS WOW LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FUCKING FIRE_ \- which he quickly swipes past and opens his email to check the reservation. 

"Half past one." 

"That’s early," Harry whines, stretching himself out next to Nick, rubbing a hand down his chest, finger catching on his nipple. "Stay longer." 

Nick tuts. “You’re the one who booked the flights, Haz.” 

"I didn’t," Harry says, nuzzling into Nick’s neck. "Paul did." 

"You outsourced our sex weekend plans to your bloody tour manager?" Nick asks indignantly, digging his finger into Harry’s side, and Harry gurgles a laugh and squirms up against him. 

"Paul’s the best at doing flight stuff." 

"I forget you’re a child." 

"Hey," Harry says, low into his ear. "M’not a child."  

His hand slides slowly up Nick’s naked thigh, cool and calloused and very, very large, and Nick gulps in a breath, and - 

"Monsieur?" There’s a knock at the door. 

Harry sits up, fumbling for his pants, bare little arse waggling as he jumps to his feet. 

"Later," he says, shooting a grin back at Nick over one tanned broad shoulder. "Food, now. I’m _starved_.” 

"Starved from coming in your pants like a twelve year old," Nick calls,  snorting, just as some bloke in a dark uniform wheels in the tray. Nick pulls the sheet up over his dick, blushing furiously. " - oh, I - thanks, I mean - merci, merci, sir." 

Harry signs the receipt, shoulders shaking with laughter, and says, “Cheers, mate-” as the door swings shut again, the room filling with the scent of food.  

"Idiot," Harry says, lifting one of the metal covers off a plate and taking a deep inhale. 

"Shut up," Nick mutters, pulling a face and crawling to the foot of the bed to fetch himself a burger. 

Harry just grins around a mouthful of chips. 

—

Nick eats so much he legitimately passes out. It might be the wine, too, and the fact that he’s come three times that day, but he slips into sleep at some point and wakes up again when it’s pitch-black and quiet.

The clock reads 3:43 AM. Harry’s snoring next to him, naked, a hand over his belly. There’s a discarded plate of chips next to him on the bed, miraculously not turned over. 

Nick sets the plate on the hotel room desk, stands up and stretches. He walks over to the window, peeks out to see Paris, lit up and golden, and the sight of it makes his heart clench helplessly. Bloody  _Paris_. City of love, and he’s holed up in a hotel room shagging his dick off with some stupid popstar. 

Someday they’ll come back here, him and Harry. Walk around the streets, kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower, feed each other Nutella. The whole fucking thing. 

He laughs to himself - because really, Grimshaw, could he have more cliche fantasies - and turns around. 

Harry’s still asleep, sprawled out on his back, his laurel tattoo peeking out from under his hand. Nick walks a bit closer, breath caught in his throat, and just -  _watches_. 

He lets his eyes linger on Harry’s soft half-open mouth, and then up to where his curls are spilled out against the white sheets, dark and tangled. He’s breathing slowly, utterly at peace, and it’s so rare - so bloody precious, even - that Nick gets a hot lump in the back of his throat. 

_I’m in love with you_ , he thinks fiercely, not for the first time, but it’s never felt so immediate. It’s never felt this big.  _I’m in love with you, and I don’t get to have you_. 

He’s in Paris and in love and everything’s still a bit shit. Life is strange, like that. Doesn't give you everything you want all at once.

He watches Harry for a bit more, and then crawls reverently into bed next to him, quietly touches his face, the soft round of his cheek. 

Harry doesn’t wake up. Harry is dead to the world, and Nick’s so terribly infatuated. This is what he’s wanted, isn’t it? Obsessive love. But it’s not - it’s not fun, or exciting, it just hurts, mostly. 

He lies down on his side facing Harry, and Harry mumbles quietly in his throat, moves closer, angling his head towards Nick’s. 

"Night," Nick whispers stupidly, touching the butterfly on Harry’s chest. 

"Good night," Harry mumbles back, clamping his hand over Nick’s, eyelids fluttering, and Nick falls back asleep like that. 

—

They wake up late, the room dark with the curtains tightly pulled and musty with the scent of come and chip grease. 

"Time’s it?" Harry mumbles, once Nick’s been up for a few minutes, squinting up at his phone, held above his head. 

"Half ten." 

"Shit," Harry sighs, wriggling under Nick’s arm, throwing a leg over his. "That’s late." 

"Yeah." 

"Did we just pass out last night?" Harry asks, muffled against Nick’s chest. He’s still half-asleep, soft and pliant and heavy against him. 

"Yeah," Nick laughs, yawning. "I need a shower. I feel like I’ve bathed in grease." 

"You smell good." Harry inhales against his skin. "Love how you smell." 

Nick puts his face in Harry’s hair. To be honest, Harry smells like chips and sweat. Nick doesn’t say that, though. Because  _romance_.

He notices distantly that Harry is rocking up against his side, and oh - that’s his hard-on, pressed hot against Nick’s thigh. 

"Haz," he says, sighing, and Harry kisses his chest and sits up. 

"Gonna brush my teeth," he says. "And then we’re going to fuck before you leave." 

Nick considers it, and sits up, follows Harry into the toilet. 

"I don’t know," he says, sticking his toothbrush into his mouth. "I might be shagged out. I might be a shell of a former human. You might've killed me with sex." 

"Really?" Harry asks, around a mouthful of foam, before he reaches out and trails his fingers along Nick’s stomach. He slips his hand down, grips Nick’s half-hard cock and tugs, and Nick chokes on his toothpaste. "You seem alright to me." 

"You’ve cured me," Nick murmurs, putting a hand on the counter to steady himself as Harry keeps wanking him off, slowly, rubbing his thumb over the head until Nick leaks a drop of precome against his hand, shuddering. "Amazing. Better than Viagra." 

Harry spits in the sink, lets go of Nick’s cock and kisses his cheek. 

"When you’re done being dead, come back to bed," he says, wiping a hand over his mouth, and Nick watches him walk out and promptly spits, turns the tap on. Harry didn’t even wash his spit out when he left. What a gross little  _child_. Nick fucking  _loves_  him. 

"Honestly, though," Nick says, when he rounds the corner and sees Harry grabbing a condom. "I have a flight in two hours, I need to be able to sit down." 

"Stop going on about my cock, you’ll give me a complex," Harry laughs. "Here, just - lie down, okay?" 

"Hazza-" 

Harry sighs, pulls Nick in for a kiss, minty-sharp and sweet. 

"Let me take care of you," he says, and when he pulls back he’s blushing, a bit, and not making eye contact. "Just lie back and put this on." 

He shoves the condom into Nick’s palm, and Nick raises an eyebrow. 

"Ahh," he says, slowly, backing up towards the bed, waving the condom packet at Harry. "Oh, I see. Giving my poor arse a break?" 

Harry points at him warningly. “Get on your back, Nick, or I won’t give your arse anything.” 

"Ooh, I’m terrified," Nick says, grinning stupidly big all a sudden, his heart full to bursting, but he does as Harry says and lies back, slipping a pillow under his head so he’ll be able to see. 

Harry has a thing about doing his own prep work, especially when he hasn’t been fucked in a while. He lets Nick take over this morning, though - stays face to face with Nick, straddling his waist, and Nick opens him up slowly. Harry murmurs, slows Nick down with a hand on his wrist if Nick goes too deep. 

And then Harry shakes his head, pushes Nick’s hand away. 

"I’m ready," he says, breathless, soft, moving backwards and reaching for Nick’s cock. "M’fine, promise, let’s just-"

"You sure?" 

"Yeah," Harry says, smiling, this strange cracked smile that seems happy and sad at the same time. Nick knows, because it’s how he feels. "Yeah, just. I want to feel you." 

Nick nods, holds Harry’s hips in both hands as Harry sinks down, so slow, so careful. His breath shudders in his chest, shaky and sharp, and Nick watches the way his face moves when he opens up around Nick’s prick. It’s gorgeous. Always gorgeous, of course, but - with his mouth dropping open, his eyes flickering with pain and then something approaching pleasure, it’s just - it’s so much. Too much to see, almost, like Nick’s looking too closely at something private, intimate.

Nick takes it all in greedily, anyway. He  _never gets this_. His flight leaves in a few hours, and who knows when he’ll get to do this next. 

"Shit," Harry murmurs, slurred, when the soft curve of his arse is sat right up against Nick’s pelvis. He’s so tight it burns, almost. "Feels good." 

"Yeah?" Nick says softly, touching his hips. 

Harry nods, and opens his eyes, looks down at Nick. 

"Feel alright?" he says, checking in, as always, and for some reason that’s what nearly makes Nick cry. 

"Yeah," he says, swallowing hard, squeezing Harry’s hips. "Yeah, love. Go on then." 

"Gonna take care of you," Harry says, low, staring at him as he starts to move his hips, lifting himself off and then sinking all the way back down, groaning softly as Nick slides back in. 

"You always do," Nick manages to say, throat hot, and Harry’s words spill into moans as he rides Nick properly, leaning forward, bracing himself on his hands and letting Nick’s cock slide in and out in shallow, slow thrusts. 

"So fucking good," Nick chokes a few minutes later, getting into the rhythm, rocking his hips up to meet Harry’s.

"Feel good?" Harry gasps, voice breaking, like he’s close to crying. "T - tell me that. That I feel good,  _please_ -“ 

"You feel so good." Nick’s panting now, stroking over Harry’s hips as he moves, smooth skin under his hands, Harry’s tattoos shifting over his muscles. "You feel so perfect, love. You’re so perfect." 

"Yeah," Harry sobs out, eyes closed, skin glistening with sweat. He’s found the right spot, apparently, because he’s grinding back against it, letting Nick hit it again and again. Harry’s hesitant about getting his arse fucked, sometimes, but when it’s done right, he’s so bloody responsive, so overwhelmed from the sensation. "Y-yeah?" 

Nick nods, over and over, forcing his bleary eyes open so he doesn’t miss a moment of this, of Harry riding his cock. “So, so good, Hazza, love. So perfect.” 

"Yeah," Harry says again, but it’s a whimper, and when Nick reaches up to give him what he needs - a firm hand around his cock - it only takes a stroke or two before Harry’s spilling hot over Nick’s hand, gasping  _yeah_  and  _fuck_  and  _Nick_  all mixed together. 

It’s unbearably hot, the way Harry clenches down around him and then just keeps riding him through it, and it only takes a few more perfect deep strokes until Nick’s following him. 

He slams his eyes shut when it hits, rolling over him like being dragged under a wave, and he only opens them when Harry reaches down, skims his fingers lightly over Nick’s cheek. 

Nick looks up at him, and Harry holds up his hand, staring at Nick.

The tips of his fingers are glistening. 

"You were crying," he says, dark and low in his throat. 

Nick’s first reaction is a queasy kind of shame, and his second is to nearly sob again. He lets both of them pass, though, settles on a familiar easy numbness. 

"Was I?" he says, clenching his jaw, reaching up to scrub a hand over his eyes. 

Harry nods, looking scared. 

"Your arse, Styles," Nick says, as lightly as he can manage. "Brings a man to tears." 

Harry lets out a choked half-laugh and lifts himself off Nick, wincing a little, full lips pouting as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

"I try," he says, muffled, twisted around and pulling the condom off Nick. "Hey, you should shower before the car gets here." 

And - oh, alright, they’re just going to ignore that. Probably for the best. Nick sits up, wiping at his eyes again, feeling weirdly betrayed by his own body, and still close to tears.

"Yeah, alright," he says, voice sounding hollow. "Shower." 

—

They say goodbye at the door. Nick’s dressed and Harry’s in a towel, hair damp and nearly to his shoulders, smelling fresh and clean like the herbal hotel shampoo. 

Nick kisses him once, and then again, and then thinks,  _fuck it_ , and shoves Harry against the wall, licks into his mouth. 

Harry’s towel falls to the floor in a heap and neither of them reach down to grab it. 

Nick pulls back, eventually, pressing a hand over his mouth, like he has to put a physical barrier between them so he won’t kiss Harry again. 

"Hey," he says, muffled, and takes his hand down once he’s got himself under control. "Hey. Thanks for the weekend." 

Harry nods, looking put-out, eyebrows scrunched together. 

"I’ll see you, um - I’ll see you," Nick says, stumbling over his words, because he’s never really sure when the next time will be. "Good luck with the shows next week, yeah?"

Harry nods again, still staring at him, and Nick falters. 

"I - alright, then," he says. "I should go. Back door by the restaurant, right?" 

"Yeah," Harry mumbles. 

"Alright."

He’s turning to go, hoisting his bag over his shoulder, when Harry grabs his hand and tugs him back. 

"Hey," he says, squeezing Nick’s palm hard. "Hey." 

"What?" Nick laughs softly, as Harry kisses him again, mouth soft. 

"Nothing, just." Harry pulls back, thumbing over his own mouth like he’s trying to remember something. He drops his hand to his side, shakes his head. "Nothing. Have a safe flight." 

Nick nods, and goes. 

—

In the back of the car, Nick leans back in his seat, closes his eyes. He’s well tired - thoroughly shagged out, and tired from sneaking around, and tired from being in love. No one ever said that bit, how it’s _exhausting_  to be in love. Maybe that’s only when you can’t get what you really want. Maybe that’s only because Nick feels like he’ll never rest until he gets it. 

He’s not sure. 

He tips his forehead against the cool glass of the tinted window. It’s going to be alright, he knows that. Tomorrow it won’t press down as much, and the next day even less so, until it fades entirely, like a wound that heals over until Harry shows up at his door and rips it open with a grin. 

Nick’ll wait. Even when he’s not waiting - he’s waiting. Maybe  _that’s_  love. Just waiting. 


End file.
